She nods. "I do not only eat bread," she says, still pointedly addressing the Bar. "But I find it sufficient to break my fast."

The Bar, incensed, conjures up the remains of Harrow's last several meals - an unfinished bowl of broth; a ration bar only nibbled at; a dish of roasted snow-leeks half-eaten; more bread, at most three-quarters consumed.

Her jaw tightens. "You may take it away," she says acerbically. "There is no need for these theatrics."